


Iron

by HigherMagic



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Codependency, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Nightmares, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Slash, Rickyl Writers' Group, Sexual Abuse, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-05
Updated: 2016-05-05
Packaged: 2018-06-06 11:30:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6752191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigherMagic/pseuds/HigherMagic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Rick and Daryl come back from a run that went wrong - really, really wrong - Daryl doesn't think there's any hope for recovery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Iron

**Author's Note:**

> So this fic wouldn't leave me alone so I had to write it. Ugh. 
> 
> The the sexual assault isn't explicit and it isn't written in here, just given little details. On that note: if anyone is a survivor of sexual assault I would recommend reading with caution. Like I said, I don't mention it explicitly but they do talk about it.
> 
> On THAT note: I really don't think this is some of my best work but hey it's done. I'm going to be posting another thing tonight. This fic was just draining, but I think it's got a nice resting point for the characters.
> 
> Enjoy!

Rick walked like his spine was made of iron. He refused to bend, to sway even though with what he'd endured Daryl knew it was probably taking everything he had to keep himself moving forward. His legs made smooth, even strides across the gravel, his head refused to bow, and his eyes remained steady as he set them on the walkers gathered around the prison, ready to jump to attention should one of them get too close before they could get inside the walls.

Daryl had had to help keep him steady, at first. Adrenaline had gotten them free and clear, but afterwards Rick had needed help to walk for the first couple of miles, before the aches had dulled down to manageable levels and his pride had overcome his wounds.

Daryl knew how that felt. He was intimately familiar with how long bruises took to fade, how harsh fingerprints could still sting for what felt like years after the hands that had made them were gone. He knew how each muscle in a human's leg could ache and twitch, knew the pain of a strained shoulder, of a cracked rib, of a sore jaw.

Maggie saw them first and let out a sharp whistle to alert someone inside to open the heavy iron doors for them. Michonne was the one to come out first, her sharp eyes widening just a small amount – but for someone like her it was almost like a shriek of surprise. Rick didn't acknowledge her other than to nod his head in thanks as they passed through.

"I'm gonna go talk to Herschel," Rick said, putting his weight on one leg and hooking his fingers into his gun belt. He looked relaxed, at ease, and Daryl's skin shivered with things he couldn't un-see. Because he knew – he knew the voice of the man who had bitten that bruise onto Rick's neck. He knew the face of the man who had held him so hard by the hips that there had been dark marks that morning. He knew what the man who had put a hand around Rick's throat and called him unspeakable things sounded like when he came.

He knew, and he had done nothing to stop it.

"Daryl." Rick's voice snapped him out of his thoughts, even as deep in the mire of horror and anger as he was, and Daryl raised his guilty gaze to meet Rick's crystal blue eyes. They were wild, like a famished wolf, hiding in the dense undergrowth and waiting to lunge. "Take Glenn and Michonne back to the car and get what you can. I don't think it'll still run, but -."

"I'll handle it," Daryl said quietly, with a nod of his head. Rick clenched his jaw, blowing out a hard breath through his nose, but nodded once back. Then he turned and strode up the small hill towards the prison, the iron in his spine spreading out to his shoulders as though he could feel Daryl's gaze on him like a physical weight and had to turn himself to stone to bear it.

After a long moment, when Rick's back had disappeared into the prison and out of his sight, Daryl sighed and looked back towards the fences. For a while the only sound was the soft clinking of the wire fence and the groan of walkers.

Then, "What the Hell happened out there?" Michonne asked, her voice low and steady as it had always been, but Daryl knew she knew. She was smart – and more than that, she had first-hand experience with the savage, awful things men could do in times such as these.

Daryl shook his head.

"Did you…?"

He didn't want to know the end of that question. He wasn't prepared to give any answers. "Let's go find Glenn," he said gruffly, swallowing down the hard knot of guilt and rage in his throat, and he pushed his crossbow higher on his shoulder and walked past Michonne with his head down. She followed wordlessly but he felt her presence like a physical thing. "We managed to find some blankets and more formula, and there was canned fruit and shit like that. We'll take one of the buses."

"Sounds good," Michonne said, her tone neutral. Daryl huffed again and shook his head. He could handle it – because Rick was definitely in no condition to, that was for damn sure.

 

 

 

 

When he, Glenn and Michonne returned from the supply retrieval, victorious and unmolested, Daryl fled straight up to his rooftop nest to have some time alone. Truthfully, although he'd known the group that he and Rick had run into had been dealt with down to the last man, part of him was paranoid enough and unlucky enough to think that they might run into the same trouble a second time.

He also knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he'd kill any last fucker who tried to touch him, Michonne _or_ Glenn. He was _not_ going to let that happen to any of his family a second time.

Somehow, the thought that it had happened to Rick in the first place hurt him more than he had expected. When it had been happening, his mind had not allowed him to panic – he had been rational, ruthless, and cold and calculated because that had been what was necessary to survive. Those men would have torn them both to shreds if he'd let them. It was six versus two – those odds weren't good in any fight, really, let alone one where everyone was armed and desperate.

And it could have gone the other way. He could have bowed his head to Rick like he always did, let him take the lead, let those men assume that when they'd said it was just the two of them, that _Daryl_ was the one to let himself be used that way. He could have done it, too – he was used to his body hurting, to being physically violated and aching even if it was never a sexual thing.

But he knew Rick would never have let that happen. He'd have raised his gun to all of them, odds be damned. Rick was a wolf and wolves fought with honor, but Daryl had to be a fox, a coyote, slipping between chicken coops and stealing food where he could. He navigated the world without code, without virtue. Rick would have never let those men do to him what Daryl had let them do to Rick, that was for damn certain.

He chewed on his cuticle until the skin gave way and started to bleed, and scuffed his heels against the roof with a curse. The air was freezing cold but Daryl welcomed the shivers along his skin, and made no move to cover himself up. He was dirty and uncomfortable and he deserved to stay that way.

He couldn't stop _thinking_ about it. About Rick, looking at him with that same calm determination he had whenever he declared war or sat around the fire thinking of who he had to kill next to keep his family safe. Rick would do anything for the group, anything for _Daryl_ , and Daryl had never given much thought to what that meant until…

…Until.

When Daryl closed his eyes all he could see what Rick, his jaw clenched and his head bowed, submissive in a way he never was in the group, a chained tiger just waiting for the chance to strike out. He could still hear, when the air got just the right kind of quiet, the sounds of loud, brash laughter, and the wet scrape of beards over Rick's skin, and the way Rick had gasped and growled whenever one of those men had grabbed him and slammed deep.

He remembered his own voice, steady as an avalanche when one of those men had tried to get at Rick's mouth; "I saw him rip a man's throat out with his teeth once. You wanna take that chance, be my guest."

And the look of gratitude Rick sent his way. As though Daryl had _helped_.

Daryl's stomach churned although he hadn't eaten anything since the previous night. He wondered what an empty stomach might try to throw up, and his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of someone climbing up the wall ladder towards the roof. Just like stairs, and hallways, the ladder made certain sounds whenever people climbed up it. Daryl could recognize everyone from his family just by the creak of the metal and the light tap of soled feet striking the rungs.

It was Rick. Labored, slower, but definitely Rick.

Daryl closed his eyes and turned his face away. The air moved as Rick walked over to him, and Daryl could hear the hesitance in his steps now – the way his feet faltered just a little, limping and favoring his left side a little too much. He could hear the hiss through Rick's teeth when he sat down, felt the change of heat against his skin like a balm when Rick sat down next to him.

They sat in silence for a while, Daryl braced for Rick's anger. Rick had been quiet the entire walk back, stalking ahead of Daryl like a lion on a hunt and Daryl knew now would be the time when Rick would turn on him, fangs and claws bared, and rip Daryl apart in the way he so desperately deserved.

Rick sighed and Daryl tensed.

"Beautiful night."

Daryl lifted his head, blinking, before he frowned, hard. "Fuckin' awful night," he muttered in reply, picking at the threading edge of his jeans where they cupped his ankle.

Rick chuckled, the sound heavy. "No, that was _last_ night."

Daryl choked on an ugly sound, half a sob, half something bitter and angry. "Don't you dare make jokes," he said. "Don't you dare. Don't you _dare_."

Rick hummed, and Daryl finally had to turn and look at him because how could he not. Rick had his head tilted back, his body relaxed. The dark bruises on his throat – mostly from hands, some of it from mouths – blurred with the rest of the shadows cast from the moon. His hair was dark and wet – he'd showered, Daryl could smell the cleanliness on him – and the dark circles under his eyes made them gleam in an almost otherworldly way.

"Rick," Daryl whispered, his voice caught somewhere behind his collarbones. His fingers dug tightly into his shins and he shook his head. "Fuck, Rick, I'm so sorry."

Rick blinked at him, before he sighed. "I wanted to thank you."

Daryl blinked right back. "You're fuckin' insane."

"No. Well, I mean – still." Rick shifted his weight, wincing, and that one gesture felt like Daryl had fallen onto his own arrow, right through the stomach. "You…your quick thinkin' got us out of that mess. I wouldn't have thought to…" Daryl swallowed and looked away. Yeah, Rick wouldn't have done it, because Rick was good and pure and everything worth protecting in the world and Daryl had gone and fucked up the one good thing left in this Hellhole life. "And when they were gonna – I know it's probably stupid, but I'm really glad they didn't get my mouth." He shuddered and Daryl felt it where their arms brushed. "I really…don't know how I'd handle that."

"Doesn't mean shit," Daryl replied bitterly. "I should'a done more than that. Fuck, Rick, the things they _did_ to you…"

"Could'a been worse," Rick said with a shrug.

Daryl made another ugly sound, lifting his eyes to the sky and running his hands over his face. "You say that now," he muttered. "Just wait 'til the nightmares start and see if you still wanna thank me." Rick merely hummed in answer and Daryl felt, fleetingly, a strange urge to say that Lori had been right. "For fuck's sake, Rick, _react_! Get pissed, tell me I'm scum for letting that happen, _hit_ me or somethin'!"

Rick was silent, and Daryl could feel his gaze on the side of his face as though Rick was burning him. He finally turned his head, meeting Rick's eyes. They were steady, icy and grey, shining in the moonlight. If Daryl was a hopeless romantic he'd call them beautiful, but life didn't work out that way, especially for a Dixon man.

"I'm not going to hit you," Rick said, steadily. "You takin' the lead probably saved both our skins. And 'sides," Rick reached out, settling a hand on Daryl's shoulder and squeezing lightly. Even that single touch burned with how cold Daryl's skin was, "I got to watch the bastards die."

Daryl bit his lower lip, and nodded once. "Wasn't gonna let them live. Not after that."

Rick smiled at him. "You did a good job, Daryl," he said quietly, giving Daryl's shoulder another light squeeze. The touch lingered, a fraction longer than usual even for them, before he let it drop. "You always protect us. I don't know what I'd do without you."

 _The feeling's mutual_. Daryl wanted to say it, but he held his tongue. Rick's eyes had a far-off look in them as he turned back to join Daryl in gazing out through the dark prison yard, beyond the fences and the woods. This was a good space for them – broken in places but strong where it needed to be, just like they were.

Daryl needed to be strong for Rick, now. Because the nightmares would come – Hell, Daryl still had dreams about his daddy coming home one day, fresh as a daisy, and beating the living shit out of him or worse. _Still_ , years after the bastard had died. People don't just _get over_ the kind of things they'd been through in the last few days alone.

His mind kept wandering back to the moment – when they'd rounded a corner of abandoned and looted shops, when Daryl had stopped dead on seeing the group of men, meaner-looking than any group they'd run across before. They'd been kicking the shit out of one of their own and that alone was enough to have Daryl filing through his list of people in his head, the groups he sorted the world into, and he'd immediately placed them with the 'Give them what they want and then slit their throats when they're not expecting it' kind of people.

And what they'd wanted was Rick. And Rick, steady and _pretty_ , had let them have him. _Daryl_ had let them have Rick. His stomach churned.

"You should eat," Rick said after a moment, as though reading his thoughts.

Daryl shook his head and raised one hand to bite at his cuticles. "Not hungry."

"Bullshit. Everyone's hungry."

"Can't stomach anything right now," Daryl said, eyes lowered with guilt. "Did you eat?"

"A little." Rick shifted his weight, wincing in discomfort. Daryl looked at him and couldn't take his eyes off the way Rick's bruised throat moved as he spoke; "Don't really wanna…upset anythin'. Herschel said I might be sore for a while."

The disgust hit Daryl again like a pistol whip. He shuddered, an involuntary thing, and bit his thumb so hard it started to bleed along with the rest of his fingers. "Should'a been me."

Rick's face darkened and he made an ugly sound. "I wouldn't'a let them _near_ you," he said, fists clenching hard enough against his thighs that the knuckles turned white. His shoulders curled in as though expecting a blow and he clenched his jaw hard enough that it bulged at the corner. "If they'd have _touched_ you -."

"I let them do that to you," Daryl replied evenly, his voice too steady for how shaky he felt. "I _let_ them."

"Yeah, well." Rick sighed, running a hand through his hair forcibly, hard enough that his fingers caught on the damp knots there. They needed to invest in a goddamn hairbrush or something. "I let them, too. Fight or submit. That was the choice and we _both_ made it."

"You didn't _choose_ to get _raped_ ," Daryl spat.

And there it was. The word they hadn't had a chance to say yet. Daryl hated the word – what it was, what it meant. It was an ugly sound to the ear and it tore at him in ways no bullet or bolt or lashing ever had. Rick had been _raped_. Multiple times. Violently. And Daryl had sat there and watched and let it fucking happen.

"What if they gave you something? What if you're sick? What if they'd _killed_ you? What would I -?"

_What would I do without you?_

Rick turned to look at him, his eyes that same calm and steady blue that reminded Daryl of bottomless mountain lakes and the glint of a gun in sunlight.

"It'll be okay," he said, before lifting one shoulder in a shrug. "Or it won't. I trust you to take care of things."

Daryl blew out a hard, heavy breath. "Don't talk like you're already gone," he muttered, licking at the blood forming on his thumb before he lowered his hand, wiping his fingers against his jeans with a grunt. "M'not gonna let anythin' happen to you."

Rick smiled at him. Daryl could hear it, even if he couldn't see it; "I know. I believe you. I trust you."

Daryl hummed. The way Rick said it, it could have easily been any other word – maybe a word Daryl desperately needed to hear. Maybe a word he knew he never would hear because Dixon men don't get that lucky and they _certainly_ don't deserve it after something like this.

"You shouldn't," he said, because he couldn't bring himself to say anything else.

Rick laughed – a low, rumbling sound that warmed Daryl better than any hot drink and blanket.

"You gonna come inside?" Rick asked, reaching out to smooth a hand along Daryl's icy shoulder again.

Daryl sighed, and nodded.

 

 

 

 

Rick did have nightmares.

Daryl was awake because he had been keeping vigil near Rick, too restless to sleep but too tired to keep watch and walk around, and he was in Rick's cell within minutes, before the garbled moans and hard, pained-sounding cries could wake anyone else.

Rick was tangled up in his bedsheet, sweat making his bare skin gleam. He was shirtless and only wearing worn, loose pants they'd found on the last supply run, and when Daryl touched his shoulder Rick's skin was hot to the touch and slick with sweat. "Rick. Wake up."

Rick's eyes snapped open and he lunged to his feet, gun under his pillow already clenched tight and cocked by the time he rounded his aim on Daryl and his eyes swam into focus. He looked wild, hair mussed and curly, face and chest red. Daryl could see the bruises on his hips and down his chest where the men had grabbed and pulled and pinched him to make him squeal. He could see, in vivid flashes, each handprint and how it had looked against Rick's whited-out skin.

Daryl froze, hands raised in a peaceful gesture, and waited for Rick's breathing to calm and his gun to lower.

"Fuck," Rick said, throwing the gun down onto the mattress, before he sat with the whole weight of the world on his shoulders and put his head in his hands. "Fuck. 'M sorry I woke you. Go back to sleep."

"Wasn't sleepin'," Daryl replied softly. He turned and checked that no one else had been awoken by Rick's screaming, before he pulled the curtain covering Rick's door all the way shut and took a seat on Rick's bed by his side, awkwardly ducked to avoid hitting his head on the top bunk. Rick was shaking. "Memory?"

Rick shook his head. "No," he said, before he lowered his hands and rested his elbows on his thighs, sighing heavily. He looked a thousand years old in that moment, weary to the soul and defeated, his shoulders caved in and his eyes hollow. "I mean, yeah, I guess. But different."

Daryl raised an eyebrow, but didn't press. If Rick wanted to tell him, he would.

"I…I was there, but this time I was watching," Rick said after a moment, his voice rough like he was a long-time smoker, or had been gargling sand. "And it wasn't me they were…doing that to. Sometimes it was Carl. Sometimes it was Lori even though she's gone, or…or sometimes you."

Daryl's other eyebrow raised to join its brother.

" _Shit_." Rick sat up, until the back of his head rested against the metal side bar of the top bunk, and he closed his eyes. "I watched them die. I _know_ they're dead. But there are people like that in the world, Daryl. How can I protect you – I mean, how can I protect _anyone_ from that?"

Daryl chewed on the inside of his lip, looking down at his hands. "If it'd been Carl, that wouldn't'a happened," he said, quietly but with conviction. "You'd have both gone down in a rain of bullets if one of them had touched your boy."

Rick nodded, his chest heaving in a sigh. "Yeah." His head rolled to one side, his gaze a lazy slant in Daryl's direction. "You know it's…not just Carl, right? That I'd do that for?"

Daryl kept his eyes on the opposite wall. This was getting too real, too intimate. Rick was too raw and Daryl – well, Daryl was a fucking coward. And he wasn't going to screw up the best thing about this damn apocalyptic world any more than he already had.

He lifted one shoulder in a shrug.

"I knew it was gonna be okay," Rick said when Daryl remained silent. "I knew, 'cause I could see you, see how angry you were – and I knew we were gonna get out of it, that you'd help me kill 'em all, that they wouldn't see the light of day." He sighed again, sliding his hands down his thighs, then back up. "So I knew."

"Still dreamin'," Daryl replied. "Still gonna have nightmares. Gonna, gonna feel sick. And sore."

"Those things will pass," Rick said, too eerily calm. It was making Daryl's skin itch. "I'm alive. Carl's alive. You're alive. The prison is safe." He said those things like a mantra, dipping his chin and looking down at the floor. "Everyone's safe. So…it'll be okay."

"You make it sound so simple," Daryl sighed, giving one slow shake of his head. "It's okay to not be okay, Rick."

"I'm alive," Rick murmured, lifting his chin again. "And you're…here. You make me feel like everything will be alright."

Daryl blushed, able to feel Rick's eyes on him again. He pulled one knee up to hook his heel against the metal frame of the bunk, chewing on his nails again.

"I'm sorry," Rick said. "I don't want you to be uncomfortable. I just don't want you to worry."

"Always gonna worry," Daryl grunted. "That's my job. Worry keeps your sorry asses alive."

Rick chuckled. "That it does."

A yawn struck him suddenly and he raised the back of his hand to stifle it. Daryl pushed himself to his feet. "Sleep," he commanded, the order gentle. "Like you said, everything's okay. Everyone's alive and safe."

"Yeah." Rick's voice was tired, the words soft against Daryl's retreating back. "Night, Daryl."

"Night, Rick."

 

 

 

 

Daryl went hunting that morning, bright and early before everyone else was awake when he was sure Rick would be okay for a couple hours while he was gone. He checked the snares and was pleased to find a couple of rabbits that hadn't been taken by walkers yet. There was enough meat to ensure a decent lunch, at least, and even though the air was cold enough to make his lungs ache, he felt better than he had in a while as he made his way back to the prison with his kills.

He slowed when he saw Rick in the yard, pacing like a caged animal. He had no weapon that Daryl could see, and wasn't ridding the fence of walkers as they usually did when they were so close. Rick froze when he saw Daryl and strode over to the gate, pulling on the lever to get the doors to swing open and allow Daryl through.

"You're up early," Daryl said in greeting, sharp eyes taking Rick in, that group-sorting mind of his going full tilt as he noticed the dark circles under Rick's eyes, his unsteady and heavy breaths, his twitching fingers, his wide eyes. If Daryl didn't know Rick, he'd have filed Rick under 'This guy's just crazy enough to be dangerous, avoid or kill'.

"You were -." Rick huffed, squeezing his fingers tight to his palms, and looked away. "You were gone. No one knew where you were. I -."

Daryl lifted the rabbits up for Rick to see. "Snares," he said weakly, feeling remarkably like a scolded child as Rick's nostrils flared and he glared at Daryl.

"Snares," he said flatly. Then, he nodded. "Right. Of course. _Snares_."

Daryl squinted at him, worrying the inside of his lower lip. "Everyone's alive," he murmured.

Rick's gaze snapped back to him, where his eyes had been fixed on the rabbits in his hand. "Everyone's safe," he said back, taking a deep breath and nodding. "You know what? _You're_ alive. _You're_ safe. That's what – that's what I was worried about."

"Rick -."

"I'm sorry." Rick held up a hand, then ran it through his hair and let out a hard breath. "I know you don't… I know you don't think like that. That is makes you uncomfortable when people treat you like you can't take care of yourself. I _know_ you can take care of yourself, but I'm just…" He shook his head. "I'm so _scared_ , Daryl. I'm _terrified_."

"S'understandable," Daryl said quietly, lowering his arm again until the rabbits hung heavily against his thigh. Rick shook his head, once, but didn't say anything. "I'm sorry I just up and left. That wasn't cool to do anyway, even if what had happened hadn't happened. This kinda world, we all need to know where our people are."

Rick eyed him steadily, like a dog watching a squirrel skittering across the top of its fence, unsure if it needed to give chase or start barking. After a long moment Daryl began to make his way back towards the prison, trekking up the gentle hill, and Rick fell into step behind him as though he was being led on a leash. Their steps fell into sync as they always had and Daryl felt a little less anxious by the time the walls of the prison cast shade upon them and they could step inside.

"Did you get any more sleep?" Daryl asked even though he knew Rick had caught a few more hours at best.

Rick sighed. "A little," he said, rubbing his hand across the back of his neck and wincing at the pressure it put on his bruised throat. "Might try and catch some more shut-eye before everyone wakes up."

Daryl nodded. "So how're we playing this?"

Rick paused, frowning at him. "Playing what?"

Daryl lifted the rabbits onto the small table in the canteen, and pulled out his knife and set to skinning them quickly, methodically. He didn't see Rick shudder and avert his gaze. "People're gonna see your neck, if they haven't already. What're we gonna say? Run gone wrong? That it was me?" He shrugged one shoulder, lifting his gaze. "Just gotta know, so I know."

Rick tilted his head to one side, his expression unreadable. Even Daryl, who had made it a habit and matter of survival to know how to read people and had never had trouble reading Rick, couldn't quite make out what was going on behind his eyes.

Rick shifted his weight, hands on his hips, fingers spread wide, and licked his lips. "You'd…be okay with that?" he asked, his voice rough. "Letting people think it's you that left these?"

He gestured vaguely towards his neck and Daryl swallowed.

Daryl looked down and tore the skin off a rabbit a little more vehemently than he'd intended to, flinging it off to one side to clean up later. "Well, no, I wouldn't want your family thinkin' I was that rough on ya, but it's either me or we admit what really happened out there, so."

"Right." Rick nodded, once, that same unreadable expression on his face. "Okay. That's – yeah. I didn't even think of that. It's a good idea."

_There are a lot of things you wouldn't think of, I reckon._

Daryl just grunted, and Rick left without another word, a small sigh breaking the silence between them before his retreating footsteps did the rest. Daryl went back to skinning, growling to himself as he stripped the skins and peeled what meat he could from the bones. The work was tedious and familiar, but it brought with it none of the calm that usually came with preparing his kills.

Fuck, had he just asked to fake-date Rick? Of _all_ the things he could have said, why the _fuck_ had he said that?

"God damn it," he growled, wiping the back of one bloody wrist across his mouth. "I'm a God-damn idiot."

 

 

 

 

Of course, Herschel and Michonne knew the truth. Daryl hadn't been sure if they were going to say anything, but really he should have known better. Michonne knew better than anyone just what exactly Rick was going through, and Herschel was a discreet man anyway.

Still, his palms were sweaty and his heart was hammering that morning when he made his way to the main cell block where everyone was already gathered and eating. Rick was seated on the elevated section of the room, his back to the window, and he looked up and gave Daryl a smile as Daryl entered.

Daryl wasn't exactly someone well known for his smoothness, but he could think damn quick on his feet and knew how to play a role enough to con someone when he needed to. Hell, he and Merle had been planning to win this whole group and then rob them blind. He knew how to grift and he could be a damn fine one when he set his mind to it.

So he could fake this. Especially if he ignored the fact that very little of it was fake at all.

He swiped some rabbit stew and made his way up to the elevated walk and took a seat next to Rick. It was easy, this part at least – no more intimate than what they usually did. And maybe that was the problem – they were already so close, everyone living in each other's pockets, that pretending anything more would mean a considerable, obvious effort.

So without knowing what else to do, he pressed his thigh up against Rick's and sat back with his shoulders against the concrete and started to eat.

Rick looked at him, one eyebrow raised, but said nothing. Daryl thought he could see the corner of Rick's mouth lifted up just slightly when he turned away.

And that was that. No one seemed surprised by the marks on Rick's neck when Daryl was sitting next to him, quiet as always but with Rick sending him gentle smiles or touching his shoulder a little longer than necessary. None of it felt out of the ordinary for Daryl, and wasn't that something to think about, that even when they were trying to be a couple no one seemed to notice anything different.

Still, it was nice. It was _nice_ to sit by Rick's side all day, or go with him out to the fence to cull the walkers, or go raid the showers with him because Beth thought she heard a raccoon. It was nice to sit together and clean their weapons, the silence comfortable and long. It was nice because it was the same. And it was nice because, sometimes – for moments more fleeting than the blink of an eye – Daryl could imagine that it was real.

But it wasn't real. Rick would never _think_ of something like that because that wasn't the kind of person Rick was. Rick didn't let his friends get brutalized or think of stupid shit like _fake dating_ or fall in love with some meth-faced redneck he wouldn't have given the time of day to before the end of the world. Rick was good, and pure, and as righteous as an Angel and Daryl's kind didn't move within the same stratosphere as Rick on the best of days.

But it was nice. Pretending. Until night fell and it was time for everyone to go to sleep.

"Night, you two!" Carol said with a wink as she went to Maggie to keep watch, and Daryl froze because, well, shit, he couldn't exactly follow them out now. People would expect him to sleep in Rick's cell, even though Daryl had done a damn good job of making it clear that he didn't like sleeping in the cells and would much rather freeze his ass off on the roof.

He turned and caught Rick's eye, and sighed, and ducked inside and let the curtain drop. "I'll just stay for a minute," he said as Rick rolled onto his side to face him. "Until they're on the tower. Then I'll leave."

The bed creaked as Rick shrugged. "You don't have to," he said. Daryl couldn't see his eyes in the darkness and his voice gave nothing away – it was a cop's voice, interrogating a witness. "Leave, I mean."

Daryl raised an eyebrow. "I ain't sleepin' on the floor, Rick," he said with a grunt.

"Didn't say anythin' about sleepin' on the floor, either," came Rick's quiet reply.

Daryl held his breath, waiting for Rick to say more. When nothing came to break the silence, he sighed, blowing out his breath like an exhale of a cigarette. "Rick..."

"I know you think I'm traumatized, or whatever," Rick said, interrupting him. "And, shit, maybe I am. Doesn’t matter to me. Never did."

"What are you even sayin'?" Daryl asked, his exasperation showing through as he snapped out the words.

"I'm sayin' you don't have to treat me like I'm gonna break," Rick replied shortly. "And I don't have to treat you like that either. We both went through that shit, okay? I got the marks, but those are gonna go and then we both have the memories. And I'd like to replace them with good ones, and most of my good ones nowadays involve _you_ , Daryl, alright? That what you wanna hear?"

"Rick…"

"And I'm tired," Rick continued, as though he hadn't heard Daryl speak. Hell, maybe he hadn't – all Daryl felt like he could manage right now was a whisper, less feeling in it than the touch of a ghost. "And I'm scared, and I just want to feel like it'll be okay. That _you're_ gonna be okay. 'Cause you're made for this world, Daryl, you _are,_ and if you can't make it then there's a snowball's chance for the rest of us."

"Rick, stop."

Rick fell silent and the silence was awful, and heavy. Daryl imagined this was the kind of silence that surrounded empty dog fighting rings or abandoned drug dens – a wounded, angry thing. He pushed himself to his feet and walked over to the bunk, and reached out until his hand rested on the vague darker-than-dark silhouette of Rick's shoulder.

"I don't think now's the time to be askin' stuff like that," Daryl finally said, squeezing Rick's shoulder gently. "None of us are guaranteed to live the next twenty-four hours. Hell, you and I could'a _died_ out there, Rick."

"I know." Rick's hand found his wrist, callused fingers curling around the soft, tender underside and putting pressure there. Almost as though Rick was trying to feel for his pulse. "It really – really puts things in perspective. Even after everything I hadn't thought about just how _dangerous_ this world is now. And it makes me wanna…"

Daryl bit the inside of his lower lip, _hard_. "Makes you wanna _what_ , Rick?"

Abruptly, Rick sat up. His knees hit Daryl's back before Daryl could move, and then Rick pulled his legs around until his feet were against the floor and Daryl could sit back down, and they were side-by-side like they always were, and Daryl could feel Rick's gaze on him as heavy as manacles.

Rick paused, his breathing quiet like he was waiting for something to happen. Then, he reached out, and Daryl sucked in a breath when he felt the back of Rick's hand rest against his leg. It was a gentle touch, and his palm was open, his fingers spread in the air.

"I don't want to pretend," Rick whispered.

Daryl let out his breath in a shudder, and found himself brushing his fingertips down Rick's wrist, tickling along his palm, before he laced their fingers together. It was a brief touch – neither of them, he sensed, would be big hand-holders – but it was warm and felt as familiar and safe as the recoil of his crossbow or the heat of a campfire or the smooth, deadly roar of Rick's gun.

"I don't want to pretend, either," he said roughly, swallowing hard enough that his throat clicked.

Rick hummed softly, and Daryl could _hear_ him smiling. "Good."

Daryl sighed as he felt Rick resting his forehead against Daryl's shoulder. It was a warm, light touch, as unassuming as a squeeze to his shoulder or a tap to his arm during a run. It was the same as they'd always been – easy, familiar, comforting, and warm.

"So, you don't want me to sleep on the floor, eh?" Daryl finally asked, when the tiredness had caught up to him and he could feel Rick start to sag.

Rick hummed again, straightening. "No. Definitely not the floor."


End file.
